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Scythe grunted. “Yeah. I’m sure you did too.”
The cryptic response intrigued him. “Is it a problem?”
Scythe didn’t answer, which told Savage far more than any words ever could. “If you or the females need anything, let me know.”
Okay, conversation over apparently. Savage held out his hand to the other male. “Thank you. I owe you for this, and I won’t forget it.”
Scythe stared at his outstretched hand for a long moment. At first, Savage didn’t understand why. Then he saw it—the severed stump at the end of the other male’s right wrist where there had once been a hand.
And there was something else unusual about Scythe that he’d missed until now as well.
Around his dermaglyph-covered neck was a circle of mangled, vicious looking scars. By the severity of them, Savage had to guess that the Breed male had nearly lost his head at some point in his life too.
Since Breed genetics could heal all but the most catastrophic of injuries, Scythe must have been starving for blood or already half-dead from some other cause at the time this wound was inflicted.
Scythe shrugged. “We’d been raised to think we were invincible. It made many of us reckless. Not many survived after we got our first taste of freedom.”
“Freedom from what?”
“From our collars.”
The newsflash took Savage completely by surprise. He gaped at the obviously lethal, clearly antisocial Breed male. “Are you telling me that you were born a Hunter?”
Looking at him now, it made sense. As far as assassins and stealth operatives went, they didn’t come any deadlier than the Hunters—first generation Breed males who’d been bred off the same Ancient sire and raised to be merciless killers by the Order’s chief adversary. To keep his scattered army of perfect assassins obedient, Dragos had outfitted each of them with an ultraviolet collar that discouraged defiance or escape. Punishment was instant and final.
Dragos’s secret program had been in operation for decades before he was taken out by Lucan and his warriors twenty years ago. As for the Hunters themselves, they were all but legend among the Breed now, with only a handful known to exist.
Evidently, Savage was looking at one of them.
He met Scythe’s shark-black stare in question. “Trygg said you were his brother.”
“He is. As are the others.”
“Others?”
Scythe acknowledged with a curt nod. “The other lost boys. The dozens of young Hunters who escaped their collars when Dragos was killed.”
Chapter 8
Ettore and their intimidating host were just parting ways as Bella stepped out of the bedroom where Chiara was resting with Pietro. She hesitated until the immense black-haired male had walked off before she approached.
Ettore glanced her way, a look of lingering astonishment in his eyes.
“Is everything all right with your friend?” she asked.
He grunted, raking a hand through his loose blond waves. “I wouldn’t exactly call Scythe a friend just yet, but yeah, we’re good.”
Bella registered the name with an inward shudder. It was certainly a fitting moniker for the curt, menacing-looking Breed male. “If Scythe’s glower is anything to go by, he doesn’t seem happy to be saddled with houseguests.”
“Are you kidding? That is his happy face.” Ettore’s grin flashed, revealing the twin dimples that had never failed to charm her. “How are Chiara and Pietro?”
“Exhausted. They’re already asleep.”
